


Reflection

by WolfieOnAO3



Category: Raffles (TV 1977), Raffles - E. W. Hornung
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Christmas, Crime and Christmas, Gen, Loneliness, Raffles POV, pre-Bunny, third person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:09:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27965084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfieOnAO3/pseuds/WolfieOnAO3
Summary: Purpose, and action, and excitement. They were the three things that could put the kibosh on despair better than anything; though admittedly they were tricky to find whilst alone in one's rooms on Christmas Eve.Christmas Eve, 1890. Raffles is lonely.Written for the Crime&Christmas Advent Prompt Challenge, 7: Bah, Humbug!
Comments: 7
Kudos: 6
Collections: Crime & Christmas 2020





	Reflection

**Author's Note:**

> I usually avoid third person like the plague when writing for _Raffles_ but... _eh_.

_December 24th, 1890_

As the door to his Albany rooms closed on the cold and brightly lit outer hall, closed on the merry acquaintances who barely knew him, closed on a world of candlelit and wreath-hung windows behind which families told stories and lovers held hands, A. J. Raffles leaned back against the wood and closed his eyes. His shoulders weighed heavily against the door-panels; his thoughts weighed heavily against his aching head. As he stood in the dark, in the silence, in the night, a knot formed in his chest. It tangled down into his stomach and sent black tendrils scouting out through his veins, searching for weak points to coil round, tender points to jab, the melancholy seeping its way in through the hairline fractures in his otherwise robust armor.

This would not do.

With a shake of his head, Raffles stood back up straight, lit the gas lights, and removed his coat and hat with purpose. 

Purpose. That was all he needed. Purpose was a marvellous defense against all of those insidious and shadowy beasts he would not name; beasts that sunk their claws into him with increasing, worrying frequency, ever more with each passing year. Purpose, and action, and excitement. They were the three things that could put the kibosh on despair better than anything; though admittedly they were tricky to find whilst alone in one's rooms on Christmas Eve. Tricky to find, but not impossible. Purpose, after all, could be injected into just about any action, and there were _always_ actions a man could take, even if they were as simple and mundane as making a cup of coffee or hanging up one's hat. Excitement was the more elusive creature; increasingly so, of late, in spite of the thrilling and dangerous diversions which Raffles created for himself. He sometimes felt as though he were building up an immunity to thrill. It simply wasn't doing the job like it used to.

Raffles strode with intention into the sitting room and poured himself a glass of whiskey. This he promptly set down upon the mantelpiece untouched. He didn't want whiskey. Whiskey always made him feel worse. Off with the evening suit and into pyjamas, on with his favourite smoking jacket, that would fix him up. If he were able, he’d sleep, but lately Morpheus had been evading him, and Raffles preferred to leave the sleeping pills for the direst of circumstances. And when he slept, he dreamt. No, sleep would offer him no respite tonight. Action. Purpose. Pick up a book, light a Sullivan, chuck coals on the fire until it was roaring. That would do the trick. That would give him something to do.

It was not that Raffles was averse to being alone. Far from it; he had often gone very far out of his way to find his own niche of solitude outside of the ceaseless shallow clamour of the world. He had thoughts, plans, and waking dreams enough to keep him amused in his own company for hours, sometimes even days and weeks on end, not to mention a fervid enthusiasm for reading, and the capacity to lose hours to sketching. But being alone by choice and being alone by compulsion were two dramatically different things, and whilst the one was desirable, the other was becoming quite unbearable. Raffles was, of course, quite capable of charming anyone. He could converse easily with everyone he came up against, from Lords to servants to the most insalubrious of ruffians with whom he became acquainted in the course of his own less than salubrious diversions. A.J. Raffles always owned every room into which he walked, and when he left again a sigh would go up, breathed by gentlemen and ladies alike, enamoured as they all were by the dashing, debonair cricketer.

But none of it meant anything. None of those persons who fawned over him, who laughed at his jokes, who engaged with him in debate and conversation, who hung upon his every word; none of them _knew_ him. None of them cared to. Why should they, when his performance was such a grand one? Why spoil it by meeting the actor who plays the Prince when he was guaranteed to disappoint, as all men do when stripped of their costumes and their scripts? Why settle for mere mundanity when you might have _glamour_? And Raffles played the part with vigour; he hardly knew how to stop. It was second nature to him now, to glitter, to sparkle, to _dazzle_ the moment the lights were on him; the moment that eyes were on him. He went through the motions without giving them a second thought; he was both puppet-master and puppet. It was easy. But easy is not the same as effortless, and the effort of wearing the flawless mask which imitated his own face was slowly chipping away at A.J. Raffles’ spirit.

Raffles tossed aside his novel with a silent growl and pushed himself back out of his armchair. Reaching for the whiskey still on the mantel he downed the full two fingers in one burning swig. Deny it as he might, _he was lonely_. During the day -- or, at least, during the hours that he was out, which did not always coincide with daylight -- he _could_ deny it, too, with great success. He could bar the door on that traitorous corner of his mind, drown out the voice in his head crying out for companionship, real, genuine, meaningful companionship, and busy himself with -- _whatever_. With acquaintances. With the theatre. With expensive clothes, expensive cigarettes, expensive whisky, expensive dinners, with cricket and with crime. But alone in his rooms, all bets were off; all gloves were off; all masks were off. Alone in his rooms, Raffles was _alone_ , and no amount of purpose, no amount of action, no amount of excitement could shield him from that eternal, painful, nagging truth. But perhaps it was for the best, he told himself. Perhaps it was with good reason.

Catching sight of himself in the mirror as he reached for his cigarette case, Raffles paused. He stared at himself, his arms falling to his sides, his lips slightly parted, his eyes as they met their reflection both dulled and shimmering, yearning and resigned, grey, and blue, and burning.

The clock on the mantel chimed midnight.

‘Merry Christmas,’ A. J. said.

In reply, the curly-headed young man in the mirror merely raised an insolent, sardonic eyebrow and gave a bitter little laugh as he lit his cigarette, glancing back up to meet his counterpart’s eye. ‘...Bah, humbug!’


End file.
